


The Consequences of a Good Scotch

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock as matchmaker, blowjob, greg is a sex god, handjob, sex by the fire, thirty-year-old Macallan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: Mycroft Holmes rescues a quality libation from Sherlock's clutches and shares it (and some other things--wink, wink) with one Gregory Lestrade.If you’re here checking me out for FTH, make sure to look at my bookmarks, too!





	The Consequences of a Good Scotch

**Author's Note:**

> These were initially posted as discrete ficlets for the December challenge. The first one is just a Mycroft and Sherlock interaction, but seeing how his relationship with Sherlock matters later on, I decided to include it here.

_ Cold  _ was a word many people used when describing Mycroft Holmes. Indeed, the reputation he strove to cultivate was that of the “Ice Man”: emotionless, glacial...immovable. But in actuality, he was just as human as the next man, and there could be no better reminder than his body’s  _ unacceptable  _ response to the occasional seasonal virus.

Sitting, quietly miserably, behind his giant desk, Mycroft sniffled, grabbed yet another tissue to wipe his raw, reddened nose, and then sneezed, a great roaring thing. He shook his head and let it droop pathetically between hunched shoulders, losing the battle to pull air through swollen nasal passages. He opened his eyes and had to quickly grab another tissue to catch a stray mucus dribble just before it fell onto the document he was attempting to review. 

He blinked down at the page, but the cloudy mental and physical fatigue he felt combined with the mydriatic effect of his decongestant made it impossible to focus on the dense blocks of jargon. Defeated, he let his forehead fall forward to rest on the soft nest of paper.

 

*~*~*

 

Sherlock was used to remaining silent in the halls of the Diogenes Club, but Rosamund Watson was not. She was turning a simple in-and-out mission (to chastise his brother’s proposed arrangement for a holiday dinner with Mummy) into  _ quite  _ an ordeal, because apparently her squeals of glee at every new thing she came across, of all things was “adorable” and worthy of whispered praise, even in this place of silent contemplation.

But as he looked down at John Watson’s daughter, who, at less than a year old, had the fine motor skills to grasp the shiny green leaf of a decorative ficus in one hand while running her the other hand’s fingers along its veiny underside. A natural investigator, indeed. 

Sherlock swelled with pride and pressed a sneaky kiss to the crown of her head. In response, the child looked up and cooed, a bright three-toothed smile gracing her angelic face.He allowed a besotted smile back, but quickly realized his slip, clearing his throat and glancing around to make sure no one had noticed.

“Yes, Watson,” he whispered. “It’s a ficus. But, amazing as it may be, we must stay as  _ quiet  _ as possible.”

Rosie nodded solemnly and mimicked his finger-to-lips motion, which set him smiling again  _ and  _ moistened his eyes with love for his best friend’s child. Really, this sentimentality was getting ridiculous. With an infant strapped to his chest and as much dignitity as he could muster, Sherlock strode across the entryway and hit the button for the elevator, preparing to descend to his dear brother’s office.

 

*~*~*

 

Sherlock knew something was amiss the moment the doors glided open. He heard  _ snoring _ , of all things, from just down the hall. They stopped just outside the door to Mycroft’s office, confirming that the out-of-place noise was coming from within, and he and Rosie regarded each other quizzically. He knocked briskly and turned the knob to enter. 

Rosie cooed in delight at the sight of her “Uncle Mycroft”, but Sherlock was less delighted than concerned. His brother was definitely flushed, head down on his desk, and was  _ drooling  _ onto something that looked to be a trade agreement. 

Sherlock shook his head, taking in the used tissues filling the waste basket as well as the small amount of vitamin C powder that had spilled out of the glass of water that sat next to Mycroft’s elbow.

Channeling his inner doctor (his  _ John _ ), he approached and placed a cool hand against Mycroft’s cheek. His brother jolted straight awake and promptly began a rather horrifying attack of coughing. Rosie jerked and flailed her arms in alarm, and Sherlock tried and failed to hide his concern as the attack stretched more than thirty seconds and his brother’ face turned an alarming shade of red.

“ _ Mycroft _ .” He received a very condescending look from a man who was currently incapable of drawing breath on his own. “You have a  _ cold _ .”

Finally the coughing ended, allowing Mycroft several gasping breaths. When he was able, he levelled a look at his brother and said, “What’s the phrase, brother mine.... _ No shit, Sherlock _ ?”

 

*~*~*~*

 

Mycroft Holmes hated Christmas for many reasons, but the overabundance of mass-produced, faux-gourmet, calorie-filled “treats” topped the list. Even at a workplace that strove for austerity and peak physical and mental health like MI-5, the holiday season had its effect. As the calendar moved toward December 25th, cookies, fruitcakes, and chocolates started to appear on desks and in mailboxes.

To be honest, he had never met a sweet he didn’t like. He simply chose to focus on those made with peak ingredients and skill. Indulging in small bites of exquisite treats helped to maintain both his image as a discerning upper-crust citizen  _ and _ his waistline.

So when he entered the kitchen of 221B to see Sherlock hovering over a bowl of eggnog with a 30-year-old Macallan, it was unavoidable that he would drop his brolly and move faster than light to rescue the bottle from his idiot brother’s idle hands.

“ _ Brother mine _ ,” he sneered, locked in a battle for the good reputation of the Holmes family, tipping the neck of the bottle back vertical and capping it efficiently. “Are you all out of  _ Rebel Yell _ with which to spike this *sniff* pigswill?”

Sherlock huffed and turned toward John. The other man, who stood from his repose before the fire and shrugged lightly, then did a double-take when he saw the label on the bottle. 

“Holy  _ hell _ , Sherlock. Don’t use that…” He turned to dig in a cabinet, producing a more suitable bottle of spirits. The detective shrugged, upended the half-full bottle into the egg and milk mixture, and began to stir.

John smiled and shook his head, then turned back to Mycroft, passing the bottle into his watchful care. “I think it would be best if you took charge of this.”

Mycroft hummed and tucked the bottle into his trench coat. “I have an idea of who might properly appreciate this libation.”

 

*~*~*

 

Every so often, especially after an evening at the Holmes-Watson residence, Mycroft got some inane song stuck in his head. He didn’t listen to music with lyrics as a rule, instead enjoying symphonic and chamber music. But he understood that young children enjoyed singing along with their favorite songs. And so, especially at the holidays, songs with trite lyrics played on a loop at 221 Baker Street. 

Mycroft entered his home humming quietly, a jazzy little tune about walking down a snow-filled lane beside a loved one. He smiled, remembering the soft peck he had seen his brother exchange with his husband as the song mentioned some nonsense about a snowman acting as a parson. He had rolled his eyes and scoffed at the time, but really, how could he fault his brother for luxuriating in his hard-won happiness?

At the liquor cabinet in his sitting room, he communed with the Macallan he had confiscated from Sherlock’s nefarious grasp, pouring two fingers into a heavy tumbler. He gently tipped a decanter of spring water to add two scant drops, then swirled the concoction gently. He sometimes swore he could smell the Scotch opening up, releasing the secrets of its peaty flavor.

He loosened the laces on his immaculate Italian leather Oxford shoes before picking up his glass to take a tiny sip of the booze, lifting his tongue gently to the roof of his mouth, allowing the taste, the texture, to saturate his taste buds. He walked to the door to slide out of his shoes and left them that way, not even bothering to line them up. He removed his suit jacket and wandered through his foyer toward his library, where his maid had laid a fire and his butler had set the blaze crackling.

With his nose hovering over his glass, he rounded the corner, prepared to slide into the first of two leather armchairs positioned in front of the hearth, and nearly inhaled his drink at the sight of Greg Lestrade sitting in the far chair.

The other man’s silver hair caught the orange light of the fire, reflecting back warmth and a feeling of home as he leaned forward with the poker, moving a smouldering log closer to the central flame. As he sat back, Mycroft heard him gently singing, “Later on, we’ll conspire…” 

Brown eyes met blue, and Greg stopped his song, the left half of his mouth quirking upward in acknowledgement. “Hello, Mycroft. Sherlock mentioned a thirty-year-old bottle of Macallan, and you needing someone to share it?”

Mycroft hid his own grin behind the rim of his drink and took another sip of the liquid, completing the phrase of the song in his head.  _ Dreaming by the fire _ , indeed. He’d have to send Sherlock a thank you present if the evening advanced as he was hoping.

 

*~*~*

 

Greg couldn’t be sure if it was the fire that had him feeling such warmth, or the expensive Scotch...or the heated looks he was sharing with the man seated only feet away. He decided not to dwell on it. He slipped out of his shoes and propped his feet on the leather ottoman positioned between the two chairs. This necessitated that he turn more fully toward his drinking partner.

The other man glanced at him, letting his gaze linger on Greg’s lips, then the open collar of his button-down. He seemed to savor the journey down his body, ending on his feet before shooting back up to meet Greg’s eyes with a soft smirk. Mycroft kept eye contact as he lifted his feet and rubbed his great toe softly along the arch of his left foot.

Lestrade sipped in a quick breath, then let it out slowly, suppressing a shiver. He tipped his Scotch glass in a mock salute and quirked his eyebrow before downing the last centimeter of liquid and placing the empty vessel on side table. He lifted his feet, placing them back on the ground and standing, trying to seems purposeful and not wobbly as he crossed to Mycroft’s chair, forcing the other man to abandon the ottoman as well and turn to face him.

Greg used his shins to press between Mycroft’s knees before leaning down ever so slowly, holding his weight on hands braced on the back of the chair’s arms. He stopped with only a breath between their lips, chuckling softly as he clocked Mycroft’s response: the uptick in his breathing rate, eyes stuck on Greg’s mouth, fingers digging deeply into the leather armchair.

Greg closed the gap.

Mycroft’s lips were soft and moist, slightly sticky and smoky with the residue of alcohol, and they slid apart on a sigh. Greg dropped to his knees, necessitating that Mycroft widen the gap between his legs and lean forward, allowing Greg to lace his fingers into the hair at his nape. 

They kissed for long minutes, Greg managing to loosen Mycroft’s belt without breaking the kiss. He reached backed and grasped his bum, pulled him forward into a slouch, allowing him to lower Mycroft’s trousers. He paused with his fingers hooked into the elastic of a pair of forest green boxer briefs, withdrawing from the kiss and cocking an eyebrow.

Mycroft huffed out a breath, brought his hands from Greg’s shoulders up to cradle both sides of his face, and nodded. Greg’s breath caught at the open, excited,  _ hungry _ look in Mycroft’s eyes, the emotions dancing alongside light from the fire. He slid down Mycroft’s pants and his erection sprang free. 

Greg sat back on his heels to regard his gift, enjoying the dance of yellow and orange light over the velvety skin, the shine in a drop of pre-ejaculate gathered at the tip. He reached for Mycroft’s Scotch glass and drained it as well, then caught the other man’s eyes as he licked his lips and swallowed.

 

*~*~*

 

Greg took in a breath through his mouth, allowing some of the Scotch to evaporate off his tongue. He leaned toward Mycroft again, circling the base of his cock with his right thumb and first finger. A soft gasp came from above him, and Greg spared a quick glance as he ran callused fingertips softly over heated flesh. 

Mycroft’s eyes were half-closed over a dream-like, dazed stare. His tongue flicked out to wet his upper lip and Greg moaned. He placed his nose in the patch of kinky, dark auburn hair at the base of Mycroft’s prick. He breathed in deeply, growing dizzy with lust. He nudged Mycroft’s penis with his nose, smoothing Eskimo kisses over the velvety skin until a drop of precum fell onto him.

Mycroft groaned, an odd combination of erotic and embarrassed, and Greg released a low, dark chuckle. He caught the moisture with the pad of his right thumb, brought it to his mouth, and sucked. He closed his eyes in pleasure before removing the digit with a lurid pop. Mycroft would forever deny that he whimpered at that visual.

Greg grinned, rose upright to kiss the other man, then leaned in and rasped into his ear, “Mr. Holmes, I hope you’ve been a  _ very _ nice boy this year.” He toyed the lobe between his teeth, then moved to Mycroft’s shirt to nose into the collar. Nearly panting with anticipation, he licked up the carotid artery with a single, firm stroke. He felt the strong, racing pulse beneath his tongue and savored Mycroft’s shiver as he murmured, “Because I’m going to have  _ such _ a good time turning you naughty.”

After quickly planting a firm kiss on the other man’s lips, he ducked back down, and, with no warning, took Mycroft to the root, relishing the slide along his soft palate and into his throat. He looked up at the other man and applied suction as he began to bob up and down. 

Mycroft threw his head back and placed his hands on Greg’s scalp, but the hair there was too short and his fingers scrabbled for purchase. Those hands moved instead to his own hair, tugging as he squirmed in pleasure. Greg watched as he worked the man’s erection into and uot of his mouth. After another minute, let him slide out from between his lips and replaced his mouth with his hand. He lay his face on Mycroft’s thigh and began stroking, quick and harsh, enjoying the show.

And the elder Holmes brother put on a wonderful show when aroused. His hands moved down to grasp the arms of the chair once more, and he began to thrust using the power in his forearms, gasping noisy breaths and turning a dark shade of pink as he neared his orgasm.

It had been awhile since Greg did this to anyone but himself, but he could read the signs in his partners, and he kissed gently at the frenulum mere seconds before Mycroft climaxed. While jets of creamy white fluid erupted from the elegant man’s elegant phallus, Greg draped over him, nuzzling into his neck and staring down at his handiwork. 

He continued cradling Mycroft in his palm as he softened and his breathing slowed. When calm had returned, Greg closed his eyes, listening to the crackling fire for a moment before kissing his lover and saying, “You know, I’ve never seen the master bedroom in this place?”

 

*~*~*

 

Greg Lestrade was having a wonderful dream, replaying the evening he and Mycroft had shared, the whole experience awash in the glow of Scotch and intimacy. After their first round in the leather armchairs before the fire, they had skidded, stocking-footed, down the marble-floored hallway and collapsed into a well-appointed mahogany four-poster bed. 

They’d gone again by the quiet glow of London’s lights, their panting breaths the only sound in the room. After falling, sated, and regaining their breath, they’d slipped underneath the thick duvet and between luxurious sheets.

The premise of this entire evening had been one big gamble, predicated on a passing suggestion of Sherlock as he swept away from a crime scene. He’d proposed that his _insufferable_ brother might enjoy the _insufferable_ company of an _intolerably_ _simple_ detective inspector in consuming a kidnapped bottle of Macallan’s.

It was the opportunity Greg had been waiting for. Mycroft Holmes has been catching and holding his eye more and more since he’d served as his silent companion, transporting Mycroft home from Musgrave Hall a few months earlier. He’d never thought of the man as even remotely touchable until the mask of efficient, calm diplomacy fell away after Eurus’s horrible games. The man who remained had been shattered, but the vulnerability on display had been intriguing.... _ appealing _ .

And indeed, the Mycroft from before would not have tolerated Greg inside his home, nor seated in a chair in front of a roaring fire. And he most definitely would not have welcomed Greg between his legs. But last night, their eyes had held a conversation that ended with Mycroft taking his pleasure in Greg.

These glowing images warmed Greg through and through, the heat compounded by the man draped half over his chest. He opened his eyes, lowered his face to the head of ever-so-slightly ginger hair, and kissed the strands.  _ Yes _ , he thought, as he breathed in the other man, their shared scent of sex.  _ He could get used to this feeling of warmth _ .

He stretched a bit, lengthening his legs, and turned to position himself as the little spoon. He luxuriated in the strength of Mycroft’s encircling arms and began to drift again on thoughts of the future. He smiled slightly in his half-awake state as he felt Mycroft stir behind him. The elder Holmes brother drew his knees up to more completely cradle Greg’s body.

And Greg  _ yelped _ .

Mycroft Holmes had  _ snow drifts _ for feet and  _ icicles _ for toes, and he was persisting in running them up Greg’s calves. And by this point, Greg knew the bastard was awake, not only because no one could have slept through the noise he had just made, but because Mycroft’s arms were holding him fast.

“I swear on all things governmental, Mycroft Holmes…” Greg threatened, wiggling aggressively to break the stronghold. He was not swayed as he felt Mycroft snuffle laughter into his back and thrust a slowly hardening cock against his backside.

But after a few seconds, Mycroft’s arms around him loosened, and Greg took the opportunity to turn and flip his own personal ice pack over, pinning him with a glare.

“I know it’s not sexy to wear socks to bed...but we…” He leaned down to kiss his lover as punctuation between each word of his decree, “are...going...to have...to negotiate.”

He paused then, looking deeply into Mycroft’s eyes, and his breath stuttered at the depth of feeling he saw on display there. He moved a hand to press Mycroft’s fringe back off his forehead, the leaned down to brush their noses together, holding their lips together so they brushed as he said, “I’d love to see you in nothing but your socks and garters.”


End file.
